




iuiM' 




.*.-'■,■ 



Eiririfjffifi 






SIMPLE LOVE 



AND 



OCCASIONAL PIECES 
IN VERSE 



WITH 



A Notice of Audubon 



BY 



F. CLAIBOENE, 



jr. G. Hauser, "The Legal PrintMr." 

403 Camp St., N. 0., La. 

1006 



■ Dv:.'. 






,u 



TO WL^^ >A^IF"E: 



Copyrighted 

1906 

By F. Claibornb 

By transfer 

AUG 16 1905 

9061 91 onv 



[preface 



If I were asked what prompted me to appear 
in print, 1 would be at a loss for the sufficient 
motive. There might have been an incentive in 
fame, had it not been beyond my grasp ; in gain, 
but such admits of no reasonable expectation. 

In an age so practical, when polite literature, 
and poetry especially, are at fault, the question 
may be fairly stated, to what uses may the poet 
be put. 

His function may be purely negative. It has 
occurred to me, however, that surely there must 
be something in the man so singled out as to be 
made, at times, the butt of folly and the target 
of the giddy. 

Following upon bis decay there likewise comes 
the enquiry, has not the last poet gone; is not 
his harp unstrung; is his "a vanished hand," 
when once his touch evoked such keen response, 

"And woke to ecstasy the living lyre." 

Verse is but a form of art ; it is as likely that 
the public taste has turned from this to other 
forms; to music, painting, sculpture and the 
stage, which furnish pictures ready made, or 
draw upon emotions nearer to the human en- 
velope, with their effects of sound, of light and 
color, and of sheer actuality. 

There is no reason, after all, why Poetry 
should not be the most useful of these Arts in 
the respect that its master-thoughts are most 
convenient, most easily at hand, and may, with 
greater force and pith be made 

"To point a moral, or adorn a tale;" 
— or may sustain, in fine, when it has quickened, 
the ideal. 

In all affairs of men, there's faith and art, 
or business, art occupying a middle sphere be- 



tween ttem. In the march of civilization that 
empire is best and safest when the three 
may stride abreast. Business alone, and faith, 
may not be adequate, if it be granted that the 
Beautiful, a term significant as Truth, is an 
essential to the moral side of Nature and of 
man. The best is the sublime, and its conception 
lies in genius, its perception in the individual. 
To use a homely illustration, art may be to life 
what the Sabbath is to all the week, necessary, 
and in that sense, useful. I hope it may not be 
disputed that Poetry lies at the foundation of 
all physical beauty, and is the moving principle 
of music, song and painting. It is associated 
with all creeds, affords its forms and hues to 
every heaven of faith or hope, and may have 
found its first expression in the prayer of Adam 
for the company of woman. There is no need 
of stately numbers, or the measured rise and 
fall of words. The stars are sonnets, and the 
oceans, odes ; while the Creation is an Epic, 
written in a master-hand, affording a new verse 
■with every new-bom day, and warming with 
fresh life, with the phenomena of nature and 
her elements. 

Not all may read the text, and the poet was, 
or is, its mere interpreter. 

The passing of the poet may, or may not be, 
calamitous; and yet, whatever may have been 
his uses or his functions, his virtues or his fail- 
ings, his burden or his dreams, it is as difficult 
to part from him as from some sympathetic 
figure. How much of tribute do we pay, how 
many tears we shed on meaner things ? 

"Call it not vain; they do not err 
Who say, that when the poet dies. 
Mute Nature mourns her worshipper, 
And celebrates his obsequies." 

I have been tempted to present a slight im- 
pression of Audubon, in the vain hope, perhaps, 

4 



to borrow from his merits to make good my 
own; because I have emulated his work by a 
feeble effort of my fancy, and because there 
seemed between us a kinship of aspirations, 
though I may stand to such as only in the figure 
of the "poor relation." 

As for the performances of the gentleman 
from Texas, 

''What business had they there at such a 
time?" 

But there are some who may not struggle be- 
yond my prose, even as a man, who having had 
his fill, will gag at seeing the plat de resistance 
—and I have served my mess in courses. Again, 
1 shrink to bring along the serious part of my 
performance, having a creeping fear of Cen- 
sure, and her votaries, the critics, good or bad ; 
and am even now, like Uncle Remus in the 
schoolboy's tale, fiddling to keep off the wolves. " 

So, Commodore Trunnion, in Peregrine 
Pickle, "being bound to the next church on a 
voyage of matrimony," and having "the wind 
in his teeth," found it necessary to tack to right 
and left, and use much time, which might have 
been more valuably employed. So good a sailor 
found out too late that he was out of his element, 
and, as a consequence, the ceremony failed on 
the appointed hour — to the dismay of Mistress 
Grizzle, who, with due regard for appearances, 
and the tactful apropos of her sex, went off into 
hysteria and a swoon, and then made up for it 
by a clatter like the bagpipes of some Highland 
tribe marching into battle to the dinful pibroch 
of the "Campbells Are Coming," or the clamor 
of the two pipers in the famous duel between 
Clan Chattan and Clan Quhele. 

Something like this, or unlike it, has caused 
me to digress from a straight course and a short 
one. The gallant Trunnion having himself lost 
his way, it is not to be wondered at that I am 
equally at sea upon an occasion quite so thrill- 
ing. 



The occasional pieces I have selected from 
a numBer quite as bad, while the poem, "Simple 
Love," is of that desultory character familiar 
fo the casual reader of verse. The suggestions, 
however, arising out of the situation, have not 
seemed improbable. 

Its faults, and there are many, will want no 
critic, but stand out to the least observant ; while 
its virtues, if any, are neither so subtle, nor so 
gaudy, as to deceive. 

Clearness of expression and idea is what I 
seek in others. A homely thought, well under- 
stood, is better than the riddle of the wise. 

I have Imown a spring so deep as scarcely to 
be sounded; so clear thal^ thrusting in my hand, 
I thought to grasp the bottom. This is the sim- 
ple, if not the sublime. 



b 




6 



JEAN JACQUES AUDUBON. 

This naturalist, one of the most distinguished 
of any age, was born at Mandeville, a small 
village on Lake Pontchartrain, opposite New 
Orleans, and distant from it about twenty-five 
miles. -At this time his parents were the guests 
of a gentleman prominent in the annals of the 
period, and called Mandeville de Marigny. It 
was Louis Philippe of France, who, charmed 
with the beauty and poetical suggestions of the 
scenery, subsequently called the Marigny estate, 
Fontainebleau. The date of his birth is given 
as the year 1780, or (and most probably) a few 
years before. It is worthy of comment that this 
territory was then included in the possessions 
of the English in America, as a part of West 
Florida. Xudubon was then literally born on 
English soil, as can also be seen by reference 
to the pages of Gayarre : "(ki Lake Pontchar- 
train an American schooner, which had been 
fitted up at New Orleans by an individual named 
Pickle, boarded and captured an English priva- 
teer called the West| Florida. The iSpanish 
gunboats also captured two cutters loaded with 
provisions, which were coming_from Pensacola, 
through Lakes Ponchartrain and Maurepas, to 
the relief of the English establishments. ' ' The 
Spanish Governor, Galvez, was engaged in ef- 
fecting the conquest of Florida (1779-1780), and 
while the waters of Lake Pontchartrain were 
occasionally the scene of naval warfare, it is 
not likely that the shores of Mandeville were 
ruffled by the conflict of arms. The youth of 
Audubon must have been deeply impressed with 
the mystic charm, the solitude, the poetic mean- 
ing of the forests of Mandeville. In Greece 
these woods, and not Olympus, had been made 
the abode of the Muses. There is a fascination 



in the stream, the dense shade, the vines, the 
moss-grown oak, the evergreen magnolia, the 
dreamy air, and the aroma of herb and foliage 
to make the wanderer become the poet or the 
hermit. There, his infant steps became familiar 
with the woodland path, and the wild, yet gentle 
banks of Tchefuncta, Chinchnba, or Abita, first 
taught him meditation. For these scenes the 
poet priest forsook the haunts of busy men, the 
better to commune with Deity. Here, as he 
called his Choctaw flock about him, he might 
point a keener moral, because, in this common 
family of things created, Nature herself was 
grown so nearly kin to God! 

These are the words that Adrien Eouquette 
puts in the mouth of a young Choctaw : 

"Viens nakfe* taloa; chantre au pale visage, 
Pour nous civiliser, viens te faire sauvage. 
Viens marcher sur les pas du peintre aventu- 

reux, 
Du Creole Audubon, 1 'artiste merveilleux : 
Des I'enfance, epousant 1 'austere solitude, 
Du grand desert il fit son cabinet d 'etude, 
Seul, errant dans les bois, seul voguant sur les 

eaux, 
Et nous leguant enfin son * ' Poeme d 'Oiseaux ; ' ' 
Dans son rustique abrie se levant des 1 'aurore, 
Des le premier rayon dont le ciel se colore, 
Le rude enfant revet son costume de peau ; 
It est pret-tout le jour a poursivre I'oiseu; 
Imite, en I'admirant, Bas-de-Cuir , le poete, 
Variant son bonbeur en changeant de retraite: 
Libre enfant des forets, inculte Americain, 
IP n'a qu'un chien fidele et son Tueiir-de-daim, 
Sa longue carabine, a la voix redoubtable, 
Et son canot leger, fait d'ecorce d'erable. 

We cannot refrain from adding a few more 
lines of this truly eloquent Bard of Louisiana, 
because amid these scenes painted in vivid verse 

* Nakfe, brother; taloa, poet or songster. 

8 



by a kindred spirit, Audubon got bis first and 
most lasting inspiration. Among tbe boy Choc- 
taws of his own age, by whom he was sur- 
rounded, he must have learned to start the ar- 
row to its mark, to impel it through the sarha- 
cane, or blow-gun, and to derive those elements 
of woodland skill which made him the peer of 
trapper or pathfinder: 

" Je te dois et te garde a jamais, patrie, 
Un amour filial, un culte de latrie ; 
Et tu seras toujours, 'apres celle des cieux,' 
La plus douce a mon coeur, la plus belle a mes- 

yeux. 
Et toi, ville Creole, active Capitalle, 
Nouvelle Orleans, ma ville natale, 
Je t'aimerai toujours, et ton hostilite 
Ne ferait qu'enflammer mon amour exalte. 
Quand je te vis, enfant, tu n'etais qu'un village; 
Amon Berceau tes bois ont prete, leur ombrage ; 
J'ai vu dans tes faubourgs plantes de lataniers. 
La taique* avec are faconnant ses paniers;. 
Et le jeune Chactas, noirci par la boucanei, 
Sur le feu, redressant sa longue sarbacane 
Tardis qu-avec adresse un enfant sur I'oiseau 
Decochait de son arc la fleche de roseau. ' ' 

The earlier years of Andubon were marked by 
struggle and failure. He drifted from Penn- 
sylvania to New York, and afterwards down the 
Ohio to Kentucky, till we find him back in his 
native home in 1821 and 1822. He was past 
forty and had accomplished little in the way of 
fame, and even less in the way of fortune. 
His father had hoped to make him a man 
of business, but commercialism had not pene- 
trated every sanctuary, accumulation has not as 
yet absorbed all the energies of mankind, and 
our genius, bent on his thoughts of nature and 
her frequenters, literally took to the woods. His 
attempts at merchandising had ended in disas- 

*Taique, a female, or squaw. 

' 9 



ter, or in becoming the easy dupe of those who 
readily possessed as much of smartness or of 
shrewdness as he had of nature genius. Like 
Gulliver among the Lilliputians, he might have 
trodden down their plans, or their persons, but 
then it had been inadvertently. He had the pride 
or the simpHcity of contempt. Trade was a poor 
companion to his life. The tall pine and the 
sapling may grow side by side, yet bind them 
together, and the one will uproot the other. It 
was about this time that he wrote: "From this 
date my pecuniary difficulties daily increased. 
I had heavy bills to pay, which I could not meet 
or take up. The moment this became known to 
the world around me, that moment I was as- 
sailed with thousands of invectives; the once 
wealthy man was now nothing." 

What ingenuousness is there conveyed. He 
might have known of this, the inevitable doom 
of all aesthetic spirits. As if, indeed, in his 
contempt of worldly dross, he might escape the 
penalty of his madness ; as if there ever is es- 
cape from fools except in — ^immortality. 

It is a pity that Audubon might not have 

,made of New Orleans the city of his adoption, 

when it was so nearly the city of his birth. But 

of his stay in 1821 and 1822 his granddaughter 

speaks : 

"It was not the place for them to make either 
a permanent income or home. Both (he and his 
wife) played well, the one on the piano and he 
on a variety of instruments, principally the vio- 
lin, flute and flageolet." He existed by selling 
pictures and giving drawing lessons. 

Of his other accomplishments and his appear- 
ance we learn from his widow: 

"He was an admirable marksman, an expert 
swimmer, a clever rider, possessed great activ- 
ity, prodigious strength, and was notable for 
the elegance and beauty of his features. In 
height he measured five feet, ten and one-half 
inches, had large, dark eyes, rather sunken, 

10 



light-colored Brows, aquiline nose, fine set of 
teeth, and hair passing down behind each ear 
in luxuriant ringlets as far as the shoulders." 
lie was by habit and disposition careful of his 
exterior under all circumstances. Once when 
bent by cares, t; hen ill fortune gave him no re- 
spite, he complains that '*with hair uncut and 
neglected attire, he felt like the Wanderingi 
Jew;" 

After his abortive attempts to find fame or 
favor in New Orleans he departed for Natchez, 
where ' ' he enjoyed all the patronage which 
that place aft'orded," 

''Audubon and his friend Stein," his wifo 
continues, "resolved to start on an expedition 
as perambulating portrait painters; and pnr- 
chasing a wagon, prepared for a long expedi- 
tion throughout the Southern States. 'I had 
finally determined,' said he, 'to break through 
all bonds, and pursue my ornithological pur- 
suits. My best friends solemnly regarded me 
as a madman, and my wife and family alone 
gave me encouragement.' " O, rare and hap- 
py man, to have been a prophet unto his own 
household. We cam now conceive the sources 
of that energy which bade him to set out again, 
and still again, with every fall or stumble by the 
way. The faith in himself had sunk at last, 
but that he caught new breath, and hopes, and 
courage in the faith of those he loved. 

Meanwhile he had never failed to indulge his 
tastes in the. stiidy of birds and animals, and in 
making drawings, from life, of their character- 
istics. His rambles bore him fruit in the grat- 
ification of his ambition and the delight of all 
posterity. 

A residence of several months in Bayou 
Sara, Louisiana, enabled him to lay by the sum 
of two thousand dollars. A large part of thia 
were the savings of his dutiful wife, and the rest 
he derived from dancing and fencing lessons. 

11 



This fortunate and unusual circumstance ena- 
bled him to cany out his plans for the publicar 
tion of liis life endeavors, and in consequence 
we behold him a few years later in Edinburgh, ' 
Scotland. 

Audubon had been frequently importuned 
by his friends to cut his hair, henice the obitu- 
ary—from his diary: 

''Edinburgh, March 19, 1827.— This day my 
hair was sacrificed, and the will of God usurped 
by the wishes of Man. As the barber clipped 
my locks rapidly, it reminded me of the horri- 
ble times of the French Kevolution, when the 
same operation was performed upon the vic>- 
tiras murdered by the Guillotine. My heart 
sank low." 

Audubon was now fifty, or nearly so. He 
had gone but little of the way to fame, or suc- 
cess, and there was yet a tedious toil before 
him. He found in Europe support and encour- 
agement in the reception given him ty Hers*ehel, 
Cuvier, Humboldt and Sir Walter Scott, ais well 
as the academies of art in England and France. 
He was finally successful in effecting the publi- 
cation of his first work, ''The Birds of Amer- 



ica." 



If ever a woman made a man', the wife of 
Audubon made him. Familiar with ease and 
plenty, she took the greater poirtion of their 
common poverty. She did not blush for his 
debts. She set no woman's whim to thwart 
his plans ; she did not carp at the follies of his 
genius; but accepted his authority or superior- 
ity as a condition natural in the universal equi- 
poise of things. When he faltered, she lifted 
the cross from his shooilders with a woman's 
smile, and when he chafed, she gathered the 
ci'own of thorns to her own brow. She was the 
true companion to a man ; and when he died, she 
sought him in the grave. She wrote his life 
with a singular meekness and modesty, when 

12 



she kad been the greater, or, at least, the better 
part of it. AuduboiQ had been poor for the 
greater portion of his life, a condition which 
he accepted with complacency; yet, better still, 
a state which appears to have been cheerfully 
shared by the only beings whose sufferings, 
bickerings, or whose resistance had galled him. 

It is not that the poet is poor, but rather that 
the poor is poet. It is not to be supposed that 
he entirely escaped the bitterness of passing 
pangs, yet he was good— a word so much at 
warfare with the clown's conceit of greatness. 

"Who loves not Nature, loves not Man; who 
does, is But a poor enemy, and has but little 
room for hate. And Audubon was a poet. His 
poetical :£^ncies found expression in the beau- 
ties of animated nature, of birds and animals, 
of sunshine, ray and shadow, of flower and for- 
est. They found expression in the features of 
his native land, and in the love of her creatures. 
What others might not see, he saw; what they 
felt not, he felt. He had the second sight, the 
vision and the gift, the secret of the beautiful. 
He was, himself, the loigical creation from out 
the bountiful environinent of things sublime. 




13 



A TOAST. 

Aftee, oe Foli/)wing the Gentleman Feom 

Texas. 

Mr. Chairman, Ladies and Gentlemen: 

And while I have invoked the name of "woman 
here, it is a thought, a word which I would not 
disown. She is intimately associated with the 
destinies of our country ; there hes a generation 
yet unbom. Woman is of that gentle creation, 
"tho' lost to sight, to memory dear." 

Sir, New Orleans and its environments, were 
once an island embraced by the river Iberville, 
the Gulf, Lake Pontchartrain, and the Missis- 
sippi—a low and narrow strip, for the most 
part enveloped by threatening waters. It is 
not factories that it wants, nor energy, nor prog- 
ress, so much as a tributary population, a sub- 
urban population. Launched, as it were, upon 
the waters, it has seemed to me, like unto 
Noah's Ark. The dove wenit forth upon a cer- 
tain day, but found no foothold in the surround- 
ing of mud and^ mire. Again it took flight, and 
this time returned, bearing the olive branch. 
Theai Noah knew that the waters of the desert 
had receded. Not far from this spot begins a 
waste of swamp, stretching some thirty miles 
to the Gulf. It is the home of reptile, of bug 
and beetle, of the pungent mosquito, of the pes- 
tilential Anopheles. It is a land teeming with 
agricultural promises, a fertile womb, awaiting 
the enchanter's wand to tickle it into birth and 
bearing. It wants the pioneer of industry or 
capital, who, like the dove of the Ark, may bear 
back to us the sprig of olive or of magnolia, 
when we shall know that the waters ofthe desert 
have receded. Tlien^ indeed, if it be a case in 
point, will the dollar have become almighty. 

New Orleans is great, but she; will be greatest 
when American genius will have pierced the 
Isthmus, or even builded up the waste places 
in our midst. 

14 



Sir, tliey tell us that we are a slow, at times^ 
an indolent people. It may be due to the fra- 
grance of our olive, our orangei blossoms, to the 
blandishments of our soft breezes, or even to 
*'the light of a dark eye in woman,'" — I know 
not which. But, sir, the Pilgrim Father who 
set foot upon Cape Cod, the Huguenot of the 
Carolinaa, the Ealeighs of Virginia, found a 
footsoiil of everlasting foundation. The Iber- 
villes, the Bienvilles, builded upon a founda- 
tion of quagmire and quicksand. They found a 
solitude of waters, traversed alone— by the si- 
lent pirogue of the Choctaw. They beat back the 
reptile, the savage and the wild beast ; they did 
better than the enterprising Yankee, or the 
pushing Westerner. They, like the Titans of 
old, grappled with the elements of sky and 
earth, and they conquered nature;— and their 
descendants have not rested. Year by year the 
strife goes on, with Mexico upon the one side 
and Mississippi upon the other, until our dykes 
and levees, taming the very floods, yet climbing 
higher and higher, are become as living monu- 
ments to the energy, the toil, and the character 
of our population. So the caged lion, tossing 
and fretting between his bars, is held in check 
by the master hand of his tamer. Yet, sir, I 
wish that I might infuse into the life* blood of 
my own people the dash, the spirit, the enthu- 
siasm of the Texan; and while I am fain to 
grant him even a loftier patriotism, I stand 
ready to question whether his occasion is great- 
er or his inspiraiien more sourceful. 

Sir, the Mississippi has scattered along it3 
banks a family of splendid States; yet, the an- 
cient Father of Waters has no daughter fairer 
than Louisiana!. There she stands, "a thing 
of beauty and a joy forever," offspring of river 
and ocean, a newborn Venus rising from the 
waves. 



15 



Could the poor Indian, where his wigwam stood, 

Her monuments review^ 
He might exclaim him, "Lo, how great and good, 

The white man's Manitou!" 

The savage Choctaw might surcease 

The war-whoop of the brave, 
To smoke the calmnet of peax;e 

Upon DeSoto's grave. 

To you, who have lately pitched your wig- 
wam beside our classic stream, I say, join us in 
the past, as we join you in the future. Our's 
shall be the race toward the goal 6f American 
civilization and idealism. You tread on con- 
secrated ground, the lying place of a DeSoto, a 
LaSalle. Here, on this ver^^ spot, was fired the 
first gun in the first war with Spain. Here was 
first planted the liberty tree of American free- 
dom, and here from the lips of Lafreniere, came 
the first declaration of American independence; 
and from this spot I hear the muffled drum 
beating the death-roll of Villere, Marquis and 
Lafreniere, done to death in the cause of free- 
dom. Successful,* they had been as the Wash- 
ing-tons of their cause; dead, they are its mar- 
tyrs. 

What claim has that man upon posterity who 
lays no claim upon^the past. He that scorns 
tradition is among the disinherited of earth, and 
poor in that which ** makes the whole world 
kin." 

"The wretch, concentred all in self. 
Living, shall forfeit fair renown. 
And doubly dying, shall go down 
To the vile dust from which he sprung, 
Unwept, unhonored and unsung." 

But, sir, I have not done with the gentlemaa 
from Texas; nay while he sits, like Hannibal at 

16 



Capua, lulled into security by the blandishments 
of a banquet, I shall cross the border, I shall in- 
vade his territoy, I shall carry the war into 
Africa, I shall conjure the shades of his dead 
and "wake to ecstacy the living lyre" of his 
State. I shall invoke the spirit of Davy Crock- 
ett and the Alamo, and bid them, like Banquo's 
Ghost, toi be present at this very board. And, 
while the gentleman pictured in glowing colors 
the destinies of his State, there flashed acro'ss 
the prospect of my brain, the words, echoed 
from her every battlefield — re-echoed from her 
every fireside : ' ' Eemember the Alamo ! ' ' And 
if we may take account of all human emotions, 
of all human regrets; if we may resurrect the 
dead of country, and the dead of family, the old- 
en dead and the recent dead ; if it be true, as the 
poet says, that there is no fireside without its va- 
cant chair, then is there no word In the English 
language more holy and more sublime than that 
word, "Remember." It is thus, sir, that I have 
come to bethink me of these things, and to 
pledge my loving cup to the memories of Texas 
—her Austin, Crockett, her Houston, her Al- 
amo. 



^k^ 




mM 



r*6>p> 



17 



i 

OCCASIONAL PIECES. 

TO ST. LOUTS. 

(For the Exposition.) 

When thy gates, St. Louis, are thrown wide, 

By the Nation's hand; 
When thy drapings are put aside, 

And thy beauty scanned, 
The day will be jubilee, 
A notch in thy history. 

The fame will be thine to subdue the proud, 

And to elate the poor, 
When the earth attests it in praises loud. 

The bounties of thy shore; 
When the nations all outpoor 
Their tributes at thy door. 

The pilgrim from Mecca's shrine as well, ^ 

And Vatican of Eome, 
Will loosen the shoon and scallop shell 

To found a new-born home. 
To cavil no longer at his birth. 
But dwell instead on (Jod's best earth. 

But him, who builded up this state. 

When that Louisiana is his own, 
This splendid vision shall elate, 

And build him up a kingly throne; 
When there's no love like his before, 
No other land returns it more. 

Could the poor Indian, where his wigwam stood. 

These monuments review. 
He might exclaim him, "Lo ! how great and good 

The white man's Manitou;" 
The fierce Missouri might surcease 

The war-whoop of the brave, 
To smoke the calumet of peace 

Upon DeSoto's grave. 

18 



Then speed on, speed on, City of the West; 

And should a shadow thee beset, 
Thou art inspired, and canst best 

Invoke the spirit of Marquette, 
Child of the hammer and the plow, 
By labor and by legend thou 
Art fit to crown Columbia's brow. 

Strike from Columbus the rude chains 

That quell his captive mien, 
And bid his liberated manea 

To wander o'er the scene. 
Until, thine edifices planned, 

Thy happy mission done, 
Accept the guerdon at his hand. 

An empire next to none! 



TIIE SEXTON'S STORY. 

(Suggested by the French; of Hegesippe 
Moreau.) 

'Twas a pleasure to watch them beneath the old 
oak, 

At the hour when lovers meet; 
So gentle they were, they so tenderly spoke, 

Their happiness was co:qiplete. 

At the foot of the tree, they would sit or stand, 

Of piously gaze above, 
And when, in the twilight, he took her hand, 

She vowed eternal love. 

They plied their love-tokens with many a mark 

Of fondness and delight. 
And he carved their names in the rude old bark, 

As pledges of their plight. 

19 



I missed them at last— till, as one that grieves, 

In bitterness of years, 
Abandoned, the oak shed its autmnn leaves. 

Like a strong man shedding tears. 

He was alone, alas! when he came again, 
On the seventh day, or the eighth; 

I had spared him the answer, so rife with pain, 
Had I known of woman's faith. 

I guessed not his sorrow, till I had spoken: 
*'She was ill, or dying, or dead?" 

But I saw in his look that his mind was broken ; 
He seemed not to know what I said. 

We sought him next morning, and foimd him 
still, 

As sleeping under the tree; 
Not cold his limbs — 'twas the heart was chill. 

As with Eternity. 

We dug his grave where he placidly lay. 
In the bark ovprhead left his name — 

'Tis only his mother that came to-day; 
'Tis the woman he loved never came. 



TO 



Sometimes, sometimes, I know not why. 

It may be that the sun is low. 
Or clouds are darkening the sky; 

Sometimes I melancholy grow. 

It may be, too, that in the mood 

"When mostly happiness is vain. 
Your image fills my solitude 

With thoughts which I would not profane. 

Ah! then, ah! then, what would I give 

To shun the miserable strife 
Of human things, and constant live 

A better and a purer life. 

20 



Some green and solitary spot, 

Where faithful footsteps love to roam, 

To run our sweet, contented lot 
And make it heaven in such home. 

A bower of leaves, forever green, 
Always thine eyes in mine— and this. 

To seal, with but a breath between. 
Your plighted kisses with my kiss. 

And in my madness thus to think, 

I wonder was I wrought 
For ruder things from which I shrink, 

Or these with prayer fraught. 

Sometimes, sometimes, if I am fain 

To dream thus bitterly, 
It is because the dream is vain 

When you are far from me. 



TO KATE. 



Believe me not if once I said 
The stars my comfort were. 

For as we viewed them overhead. 
My heaven was not there ; 

Till Nature has become a sham, 

And false the fickle star. 
Whose ray obtruding where I am 

But tells that thou art far. 

I'll look no more on lovely night. 

Nor dare the sunset see. 
When all their beauties to my sight 

Eestore soi little of thee. 

I did forget, or did unlearn, 
The joys which once were mine, 

And now, the joys for which I yearn 
Are none at all — or thine. 

21 



TO ANNIE. 

Sweet Annie, when forlorn' I deemed 

My little day undone, 
Nor tear, nor smile for me there seemed, 

Nor thing to dote upon; 

When shone no sympathetic star, 

That, sinking, I could see. 
Shipwrecked, I found the buoyant spar 

To bear me up,— in thee; 

And tho' around me there be war. 
And winds and waves have strife, 

Tearful, I'll cling unto the spar 
That bears me back to life. 

Not death shall lure me thence away 

Tho' sujrf and tempest vie, 
Tho' wretched, when thou art my stay, 

I long not now to die. 

And even should the changing tide 

Uplift me to the shore, 
Where, when thy pity is denied 

Where look for rapture more? 

If pampered, I were soon despised, 

If happy, soon unknown^ 
If fortunate, how poorly prized, 

Or how indiffereinit grown. 

Ah! rather than to be forgot. 

Or lose thy sympathy, 
Since thou canst weep upon my lot, 

Thrice welcome misery. 

Let others wrangle o'er thy smile, 
"Who can nor love, nor hate, 

If thou have tears for me meanwhilfe, 
I'll want no better fate. 

22 



MOONLIGHT. 

Her window was open as I went by, 
With the moonlight streaming through it. 

Incautious, the curtain fluttered high, 
As the night wind Softly blew it. 

1 lingered, because in the glare I caught 

Some glimpse of a shoulder bare. 
And the shadow along it, as dark, I thought, 

As her locks of raven hair. 

'Twas only the shimmer of silver rays, 

And the curtain being jarred, 
I looked to the moon, where the pure always 

Have an angel mounting guard. 

Yet sure, all disheveled, a maiden's head 

Reclined on the window sill, 
She seemed as an angel that had spread 

His wings— and yet stood still. 

The wind tossed her locks with a lover's glee. 
And the moonbeams kissed her hair. 

She knew not of wind, or moonlight, or me, 
But kneeling, was lost in prayer. 

I wondered what meed had the maiden to kneel. 

So pure, so guileless, so fair. 
What wretch I would be that for mine own weal 

She might cross her white arms bare. 

I wondered what saint she could fail to move. 

So thrilling with secret fears. 
And watched for the angel sent to reprove 

Her conscious, but silly tears. 

Wlien he came, she rose with her deep eyes dark, 

Not a being of mine own sod, 
Nor sigh, nor a tear, for now I could mark 

Her smiling as tho' to God. 

23 



In her purity of breast more white 
Than the veil which rippled o'er it, 

Till I, as if shaken with holy fright, 
Was kneeling to adore it. 

Alas, I could linger no longer there, 

The place was unfit for me, 
For the breathing comes thickly in holy air 

And the vision had passed away! 



' ' Ho ' ' ! quoth the pumpkin, ' ' 'tis an awful thing 
What vast proportions from my seed do spring!" 
"Which only shows," the worm it softly said, 
''What little it takes to swell a little head." 



If I were rich as thou art fair, 
And gifted as thou art, 

I still were miserable e'er 
Without, without thy heart. 




24 



f 



TO MY BOY ON HIS TENTH BmTHDAY. 

God bless thee boy! How beautiful thou art 
And spirit pure. N^ place within my heaiit 
Is warmer than thy place. Thou art my joy 
A gift of God at Christmas, 0, my boy. 

And thou shalt grow in that contented frame, 
And calm emotion, conscious of no shame; 
Thy little life was undertaken so 
As never to cause me even a single woe. 

Atid how I love thee; air that may distress, 
And tears forsake me, when thy chaste caress, 
When thy young arms enfold my bending brow, 
Like climbing ivy on a broken bough. 

Then for the joys thou gavest me always, 
And for the rapture of my rest of days. 
And for thy filial footsteps which I led, 
A father's blessing dwell upon thy head. 

And when thou art a father, grown to see 
The little child-boy clutch at hand or knee, 
When that joy comes to, thee— I trust that thou 
May bless Mm even as I bless thee now. 



25 



PASS CHEI&TIAN. 

Farewell, fair clime, and garden of the sea, 
May suns perpetual pour their rays on thee. 
Farewell, abode where I so long to dwell 
Forevermore— that dyin^ seems farewell. 

Farewell, these shores, farewell, ye lolling winds. 
Where the sick soul consistent comfort finds. 
Fair woman, for another time, ah me! 
I say farewell to rapture and to thee. 

I say, farewell— to one alone^ farewell. 
With bitterer lingering than lip may tell ; 
Ah! tear me from the dearest objects mine, 
And still the longest, last farewell were thine. 



TO A QUEEN OF THE CAitNTVAL. 

La couronne d'un seul jour 
Vous saurez quitter sans pleurs, 
Quand deja reine d 'amour, 
Vous regnez sur tons les coeurs. 



To a lady who had taken the character of the 
Duchess de Lamballe. 

If her's was excellence of heart, 
And form, and face and eyes 

You are as faithful to your part 
"WTien wearing no disguise. 



26 



THE DESTEUCTION OF ST. PIERRE. 

A •woman, a motlier, is rocMiig lier child 

In her cradling arm, 
And the eye grows wild which lately smiled 
. On the infant form; 

'Tis a darkening eve 
As the sun takes lea,vei 

The church tower tolls a gloomy knell, 

And muffled, like a sob, 
AVhile every peal of the vesper bell, 
Causes her heart to throb. 
And she crosses her brow. 
Bent over him now • 
As uttering a vow. 

Without, is the solmen hush of things, 

As some death-omen brings; 
Hark ! there are murmurs and whisperings, 
Like rustle of phantom wings; 
And a dull, dull sound, 
As from underground 
Causes her heart to bound. 

Is the baby vexed? Ah, no, not he. 

So gently put to bed. 
To the song of a mother's voice, and she, 
Hei' prayer half unsaid. 

Plies to the window bar 
And puts the curtain far. 
To catch what their mutterings are. 

Hist! 'tis the patter of hurrying feet, 

And the smothered sp^eech, 
And the awful shout of men on the street, 

Calling each to each. 

27 



On her ghastly face, that peers in the night, 

There passes a hot gust, 
And the quick lightning foils her sight, 

Dry are the lips with dust. 

What sound is that, like a distant crash; 

The earth is being rent; 
Otit from the gloom comes flash on flash, 
The breath is thick and pent. 
In the din and roar 
She is reeling o'er 
The drunken floor; 

Which heaves like the deck of a vessel tost ; 

And shrieks like unseemly laughter. 
And lips that peal, "We are lost, are lost," 
In the stillness which came after. 
It is raining fire 
From moutain pyre 
And clouds that horrify her. 

Now is the hush of sound or voice. 

Great God! Is the peril past? 
Must now the timid all rejoice. 

And the brave take breath at last? 

The child knows nothing of flame or fear. 

Of overhanging woes, 
But sleeps he, for a mother is near, 
In confident repose. 

As from window to bed she went. 
Scanning the night, or bent 
On watching every element. 

To see how blackly the clouds portend. 

With overspreading pall. 
And the live cinders, which descend. 
And, crepitating, fall. 
While some do sleep. 
And many weep, 
Or awful vigils keep. 



28 

4 



For what might the anxious night foretell, 
.4nd hours with torture crammed, 

Long as the record kept in hell 
On the Dial of the Diamned. 

' All are afoot ; they wake, they gaze, 

Rome clasp themselves around. 
Some herd, and some in pious maze 
A;e kneeling on the ground. 

Extending the finger of despair. 
Exclaiming, "There," and "There, 
The curse is on St. Pierre." 

Tumultuous smoke from the crater rolls, 

And the earth rocks, 
The depths of the volcano toils 
In thunder shocks. ' 

While Pelee vomits 
Hell-flames from its 
Bowels and its summits. 

Then heaves the mountain— with one bound 

Its seal of ages tore, 
From cave to cavern of the ground. 

The thunders, echoing, roar. 

The sphere is sinking, sunk in space. 

The end is of the world, 
It is the globe, with dizzy pace 

From ont its orbit whirled. 

And they saw, when the clock stnwjk eight. 
The finger of fate 
On the dial plate. 

"Help!" when they grope apart, and choke 

As in quicksand the accurst; 
** Water," they cry— for their water, smoke; 

And sulphur for their thirst. 

The atmosphere, all is a scroll 

Ablaze, without a blot, 
Glowing like a stupendoiis coal, 

Massive and red hot. 



29 



There's some in heaps; some piecei-meal drip, 

In liquid fire drenched. 
And there a limb, or head, or hip 

From out the socket vrrenched. 

Thea-e's none are left to save, 
The good, the knave, 
The child, the bad, the brave. 
All— buried in one grave. 



TO JULIA. 

# 

Julia's eyes are dreamful ever, 

Morning, noon or night. 
And the smile which Heaven gave her 

Makes her my deUglit. 

Blessed is the hand that wrought her, 

For her lashes seem 
Willow branches on the water 

Of a deept, deep stream. 

Oh, the flame J;hat sparkles under 

And the secrets it may tell, 
As a star is seen in wonder 

At the bottom of a well. 

Julia's is a toysome mouth. 
Sweet as a pomegranate, 
When the breezes of the South 
In their fragrance fan it. 

'Tis in vain that she would capture 
Me, so Eounden tO' her charm; 

'Tis her heart has wrought my rapture, 
Neither face, and neither form; 

'Tis her soul for which I sought her, 
Pure as snows that mountains pillow! 

Soft as ripple on the water. 
Passioned, as the ocean billow. 
30 



TO . 

'Tis farewell, then; 'tis farewell, then, 

Alas! this is good-bye; 
Oh, I could hate such parting— when 

To part is not to die. 

And now, 'tis living must be borne, 

And loneliness of heart. 
I shall not weep, I shall not mourn, 
I cannot more than part. 



THE DEATH OF THE BOER BOY. 

He lay in the trenches— and pale and weak. 

His face to the sky upturned. 
Yeit no mother's lip kissed his pallid cheek 

With kisses for which he yearned. 

« 

He was only a boy, twelve or thirteen, 

A blossom in its prime. 
With the look of a girl almost, and e'en 

A soldier before his time. 

So gentle, he seems, and free from wiles, 

As a mother's favored son. 
So brave withal, and even he smiles 
That the battlcj at least, is won. 

Think on thy mother, Boer Boy, 

Think on thy mother's tears. 
Thy home no longer may hold a joy. 

When the tidings reach her ears. 

Otie tear he gives to the dear one there. 

As torn from his closing eyes; 
for the fingers to soothe his care, 

Before— before he dies. 

31 



Boer Boy, they shall bury thy delicate limbs 
On the turf they shall pillow thy head, 

They shall say not a prayer, nor sing any hymns 
Nor vigils hold over the dead. 

Over thee they shall trample the dust, they shall 
toss 

A handful over thy face. 
But never a flower, and never a cross, 

To mark such a pitiless place. 

Then, peace to thee. Boy, till lightly thy 

brow, 

Eepose on thy native sod. 
Thine arms are stacked for Eternity now 

In the camping-ground of God. 




82 



SIMPLE LOVE. 
Canto I. 

I. - 

Some poet made a wish, and God fuljaUed 
It when He moulded thee. Thou art a prayer, 
As angels make— a drop of dew distilled; 
*And pure a^d virgin as the morning air. 

Who that may dwell with Sunset needs not 

stand, 
Nor feel his fool's empire shrink to naught, 
And does not kneel, that so serenely grand 
The Master 's touch is on this canvas wrought. 

Long in the lap of Nature let me lie, 
To curl my limbs along the parent breast. 
As the weak infant, when his lips are dry, 
To whom the mother milk is warmly pressed. 
Being, that canst fulfill such promises of bliss, 
What little comes of man beside a scene like 
this! 



II. 



The bland consent, the coin-congested eye. 
The tentacles of gain, the panting crowd. 
What are his panoplies to yonder sky. 
His pomps and panders to the fretted cloud.! 
Is this but vapor which I now behold, 
Some trick of fancy, fantasy, or spell. 
And sounds, (as when the Angelus is tolled). 
The solemn anthem of a distant bell. 

And the Creator 's breath has peopled space 

AVith images of Hifti;— or fanes that rest 
On air, for sure the glad, ethereal place, 
Where God is host to each expected guest. 

One ray of light, one drop of water can 

Besotted sink the frippery of man. 

33 



in. 



Not here the tawdry ornament upholds 

In sham devices its exalted state, 

Not after human whims are Nature's moulds, 

When luring Art at times is but a bait. 

And shun, thou skeptic, if such folly hast. 

To rear up idols of ignoble clod, 

Tho' Nature bear the mould, the frame is cast 

In the effulgence of a greater God! 

And whether Beauty comes with sunset's thrill, 

Or comes upon the wings of woman's glance, ♦ 

The gift to see the Beautiful, is still 

By Him revealed, and not an only chance. 

Ah! truer far than passion's mutual lie 

The poet's honeymoon in yonder sky! 



IV. 

What fitter mansion for th ' uneasy soul ; 

Kay lust the inner craving sate as well ! 

Is not enduring joy the common goal, 

Some still abode, where light and love do dwell, 

Tho ' fetters bind my limbs unto this spot, 

The spirit hath no seal. Who would not choose 

Communion with Creation for his lot. 

Or kindred with the elements refuse ? 

There be not strangers in the vacant air, 

Nor hostile countenance in yonder dome. 

When earth repels, Imagination fair 

Can make of heaven family and home. 

There is no solitude, and man will have for host 

In every haunt of thought, the being he loves most. 



V. 



I shun not text of laity or priest, 
Yet none are absent, and there are no dead ; 
None are the silent, none unseen— at least, 
'Tis in the Book of Nature which I read; 

34 



The things around me take on attitudes, 
And spirit world is neither deaf nor dumb; 
The sun, the rainbow are but platitudes, 
Pale premises of raptures yet to come. 
— ^ — Is there a spot unpeopled, or a space: 
Thought is the soul, and only coarse and crude, 
Which, like it can inhabit every place, 
And ply the vacuum with a multitude. 
It is not matter which nor sinks, nor s'bars, 
Rejoices, grieves, and utmostly adores. 



VI. 



There is no void that Fancy may not fill. 
Or be it ocean, or the sky above. 
Or time, or seas the heart may leap at will, 
And Earth itself belongs to them that love 1 

1 love to idle on the water thus, 

When I may call that humble shore mine own, 
Now with all dumb companions ,to discuss, 
At other times, to muse -^ith God alone. 
When darkness comes, some star and I wax warm 
With sweetly speeches free from meddling ear. 
Enveloping all sense as with a charm, 
And making kind remembrance doubly dear. 
As tho' soft lips might part quite vividly. 
And with a woman's languor speak to me, 



VII. 

The night is on, the breeze is laden o'er, 
As freighted with the fragrance of the East, 
Or likely, perfumes, wafted from the shore, 
Have come to mingle too in Nature's feast. 
Day hath no moment like to this. Had I 
A worship next to God, it were for thee, 
Soft hour, which hast wings to scale the sky, 
And cheerest man with something yet to be. 
Heard ye before such paeons from the land 

35 



Of piping throats ; the night-bird hanks on high, 
Shrill alleluiahs rise on every hand, 
Anthems of things that are— I know not why- 
Forgotten of Eternity — and die. 
It is Hosannah ! and when all are flushed, 
When these acclaim, 'tis I alone am hushed. , 



\ vm. 

The moon advances* like a blushing bride, 
So shrunk in coyness the Madonna face, 
As fearful to offend her virgin pride, , 
Young Night doth take her unto his embrace. 
I'd barter all the rapture yet in store 
For even tenderness with this above, 
I'd be the silly boy I was of yore 
To pupil the soft blandishments of love. 

Methinks some subtle essence bathes the air 

With scent of orange blossoms— on the lake 
Is mimic lightning darting here and there, 
As ray and ripple the mock battle make. 

No scene i,s twice the same— or be it eve or morn, 

The night is ever new, and Nature ever born. 



IX. 



Lo! how enchanting sits yon wooded shore, 
O'er which the veil hangs half suspended still, 
So, let me take my fill of thee once more, 
And be thou life or dreaming, yet be still. 
For God is actor in this awful scene, 
And I would know Him better ; I would strip 
What is my soul of all vile dross unclean, 
And share with angels a companionhsip. 

The flesh is to the spirit what the dust 

Is to the sunbeam ; did one heart unclothe, 
Might Day the conscience from its hiding thrust 
The leper, man, were left no thing to loathe. 

Still, I have known of flesh to cover up a thing 

Brighter than any gem, purer than any spring. 

36 



X. 



There is no cloud on high, but stars alone 

To break infinity of space; the moon, 

Which in the vista of the forest shone, 

Thwarts gentle night to make a lover's noon. 

The hedge and grouping -willow line the shore, 

The cypresses arise in grim array,' 

With melancholy mosses shrouded o'er, 

As mourning loved ones that have passed away. 

Yet surely in yon cottage bliss abides. 
Where the fond twain renew their pious plight. 
Content and sure the easy hour glides, 
And paradise is vain where hearts unite; 
Their path is here, and their belief above, 
'Twixt heaven and a hovel, there is only love. 

XI. 

Poor is the human lot without a mate, 
No tie to cling to, and no voice to cheer. 
Accursed man, and wretched is his fate. 
Who holding none, is held by no one dear. 
There is no tear that two at once may shed, 
No joy apart, no pang together felt. 
Two will survive, when one were stricken dead, 
For wounds, when sweetly shared, are vainly 

dealt. 
Some virtue must be proof against all foes, 
And rise superior, whatsoe'er befall, 
Some other, too, believes that common woes 
Partaken fondly, are not woes at all, 

Higher than Hope is that which we attain, 

No faith is ^ver false, and no ideal vain. 

XII. 

0, that the earth were all a desert— thou 

The one oasis in it, that my lot 
Were bounded thus, that I already now 
The hermit were of this enchanted spot. 

37 



J 



To live sTich atmospliere, and to aspire 

To know, to feel, to have no thought but thee, 

No trust beyond ; beside thee no desire. 

Might heaven grant it, this the heav'n for me. 

Yet to have dreamed it was enough ; for more 

I might not well deserve. Did fate accord 

Enjoyment of thy fondness o'er and o'er, 

I had no virtue fit for such reward. 

And He that reckons justice in the Book above, 

Might deem perdition only to offset thy love. 



XIIT. 

0, for an hour of thy faith, one sigh, 
One swift abandonment, or quick caress, 
One blended ecstacy, and th'en to die 
That other blessings were so keenly less. 
Pledge me some trite endearment thou, 
One deeper gaze, or simulated kiss, 
Thy lash, thy lips alone may tell me how 
The rapture is that men entitle bliss. 

What sullen fancies gather overhead 

To gall me with their prickles quick and rough, 
Methought, when hope and promises are dead. 
To have survived thy fondness was enough. 

Wherever is the light, the» shadow doth incline, 

And I shall cease to mourn, when thou wilt cease to shine. 

XIV. . 

1 do remember me, that thou wert fair, 

And peopled my imaginings alone, 

I did invest thine image with a rare 

And a strange beauty which was much thine own. 

It may, too, that the conceit was mine, 

A subtle freak ofl vanity, or clay. 

And that I cunningly devised a shrine, 

To take the part of fool in mine own play. 

Yet was the folly dear ; for when things seem 

38 



In form and dliues to be ethereal all, 

From his own eye who will exclude the beam ; 

And when the dream is fair, 'tis not at all 

The dream, but the awakening, is gaU. 

In woman, O, the strange fatality, 

How the unreal is so like reality I 



XV. 

Sweet Nature, welcome; welcome land and sky, 

To thee again my feeble prayer goes, 

Mistress to whom my broken wing would fly, 

And shed along thy bosom my sad woes. 

To me thou art a monitor and friend, 

Mine earliest passion and perchance my last, 

Milk of my youth, my manhood, and my end,. 

Haven of hope on which my wreck is cast. 

I live again to revel in thine arms. 

For me thy virgin vows are set aside, 

1 wed thee now in all thy mystic charms, - 

Thee — once my longing, and at last, my bride. 

My heart wells proudly up at so replete a sight, 

It is my native land that is so fair tonight. 



XVI. 

My Native Land ! God bless thee, that thy womb 

May fructify, th'y seed to ripeness come. 

Thy sun-kissed fields deliver up their bloom, 

And yield the husbandman a thrice earned sum. 

Arise the rural spires on each side, 

Be woman's pledge to man the bride's best gift, 

That every new-born token, edified, 

May learn to prize a something more than thrift. 

Pour on the fruitful rain and mellow ray, 

Alternate come each season with its gage, 

Mild-mannered winter, and sweet-scented May, 

To fruit firm manhood with uprighteous age. 

So sparkle ye bright stars, so shine imperial sun. 

That all may learn to love thee, and deny thee, none. 

39 



XVII. 

Yet now, thou hast enough to fill my sight 

AVith filial pride ; thou art a garden grown 
To nestle joy, a spot of fond delight. 
As lovers seek to sate their lips upon. 
I view the forest swaying to the breeze, 
The dense magnolia and the lofty pine, 
From side to side impelled, the tops of trees 
Appear as scencers swinging to a shrine. - 

These are the joys which pall not, nor disgust, 



The simple life to animate the just ; 

No panders cloy him and no puppets chafe. 

When thousands cower, who dares uphold his trust, 

TEe brave may do it, but the manly must ; 

That soil is safe whose sturdy toil is safe. 

Young is my native land — young as some maiden 's thrill, 

A joy, a keen surprise, a revelation still. 



xvni. 

The waves, relenting, tumble at thy feet 

In overlapping rills, while evergreen 

Thy fringe of shore, which makes them smile that meet, 

And make them weep that part from such a scene. 

And if the Arctic dweller may not spurn 

His icy crags, inhospitably cold. 

Shall not that bosom more intensely burn, 

Where earth and sky their bounties best unfold! 

When the last Indian on his naked knob, 

Plucks the last arrow from its careful fob, 

When for his shift of sand the Arab bleeds, 

It is a dastard pulse that will not throb, 

Nor feel an instinct higher than is greed's. 

But Be, remindful of his country's needs. 

In the dread hour and dark, when few are friends. 

Nor skulks, nor sinks, but dyingly defends. 

Ye forests and ye prairies, may the peace of God 

Descend upon the plough, the ploughman, and the sod. 

40 



XIX. 

-Come, thou, so gentle Poesy, come thou, 



And penetrate me with thy genial ray, 

As thou art pledge to my unbroken vow. 

Not thee, fond leman, can my heart betray. 

Temple of pious thought, from which my brow, 

Sin-shaken, goes reviving, hallowed font, 

From which my soul comes purified, be thou. 

My only wealth, that art my only want. 

Companion spirit of the hapless mind, 

Thou spotless gem, the one thing true and pure, 

Dwell thou forever in my heart enshrined. 

Alone, unrivaled, thrive, abide, endure. 

Chaste Poesy divine, choice spirit of my lot, 

That trusted, may not foil ; and loved, may sicken not. 



XX. 

Jewel of thought, that mayest not be sold, 
Or basely bartered, that no leprous hand 
May tarnish, or may prostitute with gold, 
Nor lucre filch, nor bribery command; 
Cheap heaven, too, that love or death may buy; 
Thou pearl of womanhood, without her price, ' 
Whose smile nor flattery may win, nor lie. 
Oozing from lips that fester with rank vice ; 
Long may thy favors lift courageous toil, 
Make warm the hearth to love's anointed pair, , 
Indulge thy dews to vivify the soil, 
And thy halo of hope to lighten care. 

D\well in the ray, the bud, and in the star be born, 

Live in the bright unfolding of a maiden 's mom ! 



41 



Canto II. 

I. 

I knew of one, in this alike to me ; 
He bore his faith uplifted. He had vowed 
Unto himself a stern fidelity, 
"Which oftentimes his lofty spirit bowed. 
He had outgrown his childhood, yet was not 
Like other men, but wormed by strange decay, 
As forward fruits which e'er they ripen, rot, 
Tho' green their sterms as loth to drop away. 
He had no guile, but trusted all that went 
As seeming what it was— he was untaught 
In sleights of subtle fingers, he was bent 
Alone on overtaking his own thought. 

He had pursued his phantom' with a reckless pace. 

And ran footsore and bleeding in a fatal race. 



He had believed to grasp it in the star, 
Which, wakening, he found beyond his reach ; 
He had imagined it where planets are, 
And bright illusions — to be foiled by each, 

I 
Some faces in the many oft recalled 

The lovely tenant of his lonely mood, 

But these were meteoric lights, which galled 

His jaded fancy, only to elude. 

It. was no mean ideal which he sought, 

A plasm of God's breath, or mist, or air, 

A welding of all beauty, which had caught 

His farthest flight, and flashed forever there. 

A light which pressed him on, and when he faltering stood, 

Or, fled, it haunted him, pursuing or pursued. 

42 



III. 

It was no craving, but a want, almost— 
A curse, an everlasting thrall, which thrust 
Itself between him and the grinning host 
Of his own kind, investing with disgust 
What others dote upon. For she did fill 
The cup of his desires in their flood, 
And he imbibed their sweets as bees distill 
Their honey from the calyx of a bud. 

And he was happy, or he dreamed him such, 

Until his garden flowers soon were none. 

For the ideal crumbled to his touch 

Like withered petals falling one by one. 

Of all his flowers of fancy there remained a stem, 

And he was left so poor as worthy to contemn. 



IV. 

She had not found him so when first she came. 
But made him rich in all the golden hues 
Of hope ; and stood such picture to his frame^ 
As mortal sight predestined is to lose. 
When first he saw, she was so beautified 
By her unseemly contrast with the rest 
That solitude attended her, and sighed. 
And seemed twice solitude in his own breast. 

Not in vain raptures did he now behold 
The face which had decoyed him fast and far, 
Tho' high his heart and his ambition bold. 
His farthest flight had never reached that star. 

How could her brightness ever be undone 

With not a cloud between her and the sun? 
And he reposed him gaily from his roving flight 
Dwelling in transport now upon unshaken light. 



43 



V. 

Alas ! there is no truth like falsehood— still, 

I do believe that in this erring world, 

The mask is forced upon us, when the will 

Had this same falsehood from its stronghold hurled. 

I take it, too — and I am not so daft— 

To lend a seraph's symphony to cant, 

Or scatter lotus seed in sand, or graft 

The fruitful bud upon the sapless plant. 

I take it there are pearls to gem the core, 

Hjowever black the shell, that radiance springs 

From very worms to gladden evermore; 

While lutes, tho' dumb, bear rapture in their strings. 

I deem that stagnant pools befoul air, 

When to have seen the spring were bliss fore'er. 



VI. 



There is no spell like Beauty — it is God, 
Or part of Him, and ugliness is sin, 
The upas growth which hampers the vile clod, 
And which is twin with Nature, but no kin. 
I bend the knee to Beauty, and adore 
The Maker of it, if they be not one ; 
This shade of Deity which goes before 
With a meek essence lustrous as the sun. 
Nor is it sight alone, but sound and sense, 
A subtle force or power which hath wing, 
And doth transport us from this chamel hence, 
From woman's glance unto the very spring. 
A kind of melody which lingers long. 
Making rapt silence seem unceasing song. 



vn. 

^Who hath an eye to beauty hath a creed. 

And who hath none, is l»eggarly and vile, 
The look of languor clinches the high deed. 
Bright fame itself and even the martyr's pyle. 

44 



'Tis not of semblance only that I speak; 
For gems do w.ear at times a garb unclean, 
And stars are clothed in night; while Satan's clique 
Slip on a frock, and take on saintly mien. 
But goodness, joined to beauty, beget love, 
"Which is all faith, remounting to the spring, 
Unutterably great of God above- 
Life, Lord and Master of all thought and thing ; 
Jehovah and Creator, Whom all things adore. 
For Whom all creatures thirst, from Whom 
all blessings pour. 



vm. 

To-night the firmament is one great glow 

Of radiance which holds revelry on high, 
'Tis a love-feast of stars which glitters so, 
The hypermiriorama of the sky. 
The stars have voices tuned in Godly praise, 
Those silent warblers without pay or pelf, 
W^hose trilling tongues perpetual anthems raise, 
Countless beyond infinity itself. 

We are vainglorious of our little world, 

Wherefore we fret and boast ourselves a part, 

A part of what— a bauble which is twirled 

Within its little span with little art; 

Where man, magnificently little, lifts his head 

And struts him back and forward with a peacock's tread. 



To scan his stature with complacent sight. 
When all his earth with distance disappears, 
To lunar eyes a very miliolite, 
Confounded in the milky way of spheres : 
A tear inhabited by zoophytes. 
That weeping, struggKng, gasping, multiply; 
Toiling within their cells for days and nights, 
To rear up pigmies only mountain high. 

45 



I want no teacher save the vault of blue ' 

By which I am surrounded — 'tis no sham, 
But a deep sense irrefutably true, 
Which tells what Nature is, and what I am. 

• And thus to pray, is prayer mounting higher 

Than temple dome, or churches ' climbing spire ; 
His Tabernacle is the starry vault, 
For Him, not man's endeavor may exalt. 



X. 

-But I am far from love— if such thing is, 



With which my theme began ; could 1 redress 

My task of life as readily as this, 

My heart were lavished more, but wasted less. 

'Tis much that I know better what to prize, 

And I should not repent me of this sin, 

There is a flood as well when feelings rise, 

And fountains bubble o'er when rains set in. 

The heart, like ocean, has its ebb and flow, 

And moons of love their full and quarters, too, 

And tho ' the flux of feeling brought but woe, 

'Tis worth all petty struggles to be true. 

I want no pretext for this love— I saw and felt, 

And deemed it was no common thing to which I knelt. 

XI. 

I could have parted first with life, than lost 
Her melody of speech ; she was my bread 
Of thought, which appetite might not exhaust. 
On which my longing hungered, and was fed. 
She was my sight, from which the sunshine came, 
Which bade me view the sun;— nor night was there. 
Nor day, but I did kneel, and lisp her name. 
Blaspheming heaven with my passioned prayer. 
8ho did possess me, dwelling as a dream, 
I moved as in a grove which did perfume 
All sense, and make my expectation teem 
With budding blossoms just before the bloouL 

Her voice did glad me — and so sweetly stirred, 

I knew not what she said — but only- heard. 

46 



xn. 

She was the reed to which my claspers clung, 
The sod in which my branches took their root, 
Which gave them sap — or blossomed, or were hung 
Dejected down, bearing embittered fruit. 
I had become the string unto her bow, 
Which sprang my arrows to exceeding aim, 
I was divorced from venal things, a glow 
Had caught up faith and roused it into flame. 

She was as some wild flower of the wood, 

All lonely of her kind, where thousands were. 

As tho' the eye of God, supremely good. 

Had made a special providence of her. 

A simple plant solicitous of life alone, 

A blossom white and pure, in Nature's garden grown. 



XIII. 

Her lips "were gently parted to impress 

Their music to my ear ; her eyes and cheek 

I dare not gaze upon, but -only guess. 

And wonder what they said, when she did speak. 

For so I might have listened to a choir. 

To single out her song from out the rest, 

Or heard a voice— like some seraphic lyre 

Upon the day of judgment— call me blest. 

She was my conscience, and did seem to mourn 

"Whenever that it smote me ; in her face 

My own shortcomings blushingly were borne; 

She was my mirror, and my hope of grace. 

She drove all things from sight, and had supplanted earth, 

She was the dawn from which I counted up my birth. 



XIV. 

The drop on drop of daily trial wears, 
And wasted longings come not back again, 
Unless it be with gall, tho ' unawares 
Come grateful showers to relieve the pain. 

47 



Drouths leave the plant athirst, and scorching rays 
Crisp up the leaf which hangs its panting tongue, 
So shrivels up the heart by harsh delays, 
And disappointed expectations wrung. 
I never cherished woman, but some lip, 
Grinning its sottish pander in her face, 
Did the vain image of its lustre strip, 
Leaving but naked nonsense in its place. 

To finger buttei'flies is to despoil, 

So they that only breathe on woman — soil. 



XV. 



Were I to cast in clay my mould of thought. 
Or could my fancy take immediate form, 
A woman's face had all the moral taught, 
Where blushes still assert a conquering charm. 
Her mouth were meekness, and her lips were love, 
Her candid brow defiance bade to shame. 
Her eyes had all the sweetness of the dove. 
An ember warm which might become a flame ; 
Scorn for deceit, and haughtiness for sin, 
Pity for weakness, reverence for woe, 
Cheer for the brave, and even tears for kin^ 
Her hand to all. her heart unto the low. 
She were not angel — who that Imows what sorrows are. 
And bears them, and relieves them, is diviner far. 

i 

XVI. 

And such was she ,a vestal all in white 

Feeding the lamp of Truth, which flickered not, 
But burned with steady flame, intensely bright, 
Making a temple of the very spot 
Whereon she stood, and bidding me to kneel 
When first I saw her, and at once adore 
With a mute fervor and impassioned zeal 
As only then I knew, and not before. 

48 



Anon, I heard her voice and touched her hand, 
AVhich were an unction to my heart— anon, 
I stammered to her, struggling to command 
The eager stress which urged me rashly on. 
She glowed at heroism and she blushed at love, 
She sighed when sunset fell, or stars came on above. 



xvn. 

I grew in boldness, I could tell of deed. 

Of cheerful silence in a losing cause, 

When martyrs bled, I knew her heart to bleed, 

And pale Virginia made us tearful pause. 

We blended pity o'er the weak and frail, 

Oommujiing chastely with our thoughts and eyes, 

I shuddered when she told the poor man's tale. 

Or tingled, when she vaunted high emprize. 

We fought the mimic battle of mankind. 

Egging each other on unto the strife, 

Battled for virtue, and rejoiced to find. 

That meed and mercy were a part of life. 

We pondered Nature too— beside each other knelt, 

And rapturously told what both in common felt. 



xvin. 

The stars did bring us comfort, and the light 

Of the pale moon, illumining the sky. 

Were things which told us of our joy ; the sight 

Of heaven made us children, she and I. 

When sunk the shooting star we spoke not then. 

But wished and sighed, and nothing, nothing said. 

But watched for other stars to wish again ; 

God's blessing did I summon o'er her head. 

Not then alone, but always we communed. 
She had the spell to make e 'en parting vain. 
So welded we, that absence left no wound, 
Till tho' I said ''good-night" — I did remain. 
The span of our suspense was grown so brief. 
That dwelling on to-morrow gave us sweet relief. 

49 



XIX. 

The sun had ceased to rise when she was gone ; 
For she did leave in haste— I ne'er knew why; 
I only knew that sullen clouds came on, 
Till not a mate more sadly called than I. 
I seemed to tread on darkness, I was mad 
With missing her ; I had upheaved my soul, 
Which lay close on my breathing, sore and sad, 
With its deep load of lead, disgust and dole. 
A desert grew around me, I did gasp, 
As plodding through the quicksand, with no buoy, 
And clutching at the air as tho ' to gi-asp 
The futile, image which had been my joy, 

Nor hope for stay had I, nor prop, nor plank, 

Yet sent her this foreboding ere I sank : 



TO . 

Fare thee well, but not to sever. 
Absence may not parting find, 

Thou canst go, but leave me— never, 
Never leave my heart behind. 

Like a charm it shall protect thee, 
Like a slave it shall attend, 

And if dangers e'er beset thee, 
Like a brother shall defend. 

Fare thee well ; no life is there, 
Dearer to me than is thine. 

Fare thee well, no fonder prayer 
For thy safety is than mine. 

Heaven only be thy thinking, 
May thy dreams of roses be. 

Joyful ever, since forgetting, 
Think not, think not once of me. 



50 



Fare thee well— and Thou, Allmighty, 
Who protectest them that roam, 
Pure and lowly, same and safely 
Give, 0, give her back to Home. 

Guard her, too, and O, surround her 
With the hearts that love her best, 

That no Harsh thing may offend Her, 
Nor one arrow reach her breast. 



-Should each portion, 0, Great Master, 



Soon be meted out below, 

Let her lot be all the rapture, 

And my lot be all the woe. 

If for me Thou hast intended 
Joys or other blessings more, 

Take them, e'er they be expended, 
Add my blessings to her store! 




51 



Canto III. 



I. 



When the sun rose I knew that she was here ; 
When doves were nestling, and the violet bore, 
Its blooms ; and when I heard those accents dear, 
Which missing once, are wanted evermore. 
And she did start at sight of me, and smile 
As welcoming a friend, and stretch her hand, 
To which I fearful clung, lest I defile 
By look or touch the treasure that I scanned. 

She moved among the living, yet was dead ; 

A mummy, wrinkled in all worldly sense, 
And from her bloom the startled flush had fled, 
Which writ the poem of her innocence ! 
And I was one, that reading back, perceives 
His passion-flower crushed between two leaves. 



n. 



-Not in their graves are those we most bemoan. 



'Tis a false friend, and loved ones cold and strange. 

The lost to feeling are the lost alone. 

The dead are faithful, but the living change. 

Our book of psalms no longer was the same. 

The child and she bespoke a separate age; 

No more we sat, no more our cheeks aflame, 

In absent thought, bent o'er the mutual page. 

0, the simplicity that dwelt in her, 

Of springs transparent, the transparent one, 
It was as tho' some impious breath might stir 
And mar the miracle so well begun. 

But who may warm the wary, who may thrill the. 

snows, 
Unto the broken stem, who can restore the rose? 

52 



ni. 

I should have died ere this had come to pass, 
For she was cold— and I was" wretched then ; 
'Twas done— I saw her nevermore ; alas ! 
She did return — but ne'er came back again, 

1 had become as Cain, as seeking out 

A lurking place to hide me and my sin, 
Which sinTul seemed; and wandering about, 
Invoking each same spot where she had been. 

The color, and the freshness which invite, 

The net of hair, the tugging laces— all, 

Contrivances of Nature which delight. 

Came urging on, unsparing of their gall. 

This heart, which she did cease to animate. 

Became a curse, or blasphemy of fate. 

Pure as the peals of any silvery bell, 

My passion sought the shade, like Adam when he fell. 



IV. 



My voice had lost its charm, or her's; no more 
The edifying tale between us rose. 
My welcome rang not out ; upon her door 
The wonted signal fell, but found it close. 
For him, so near accomplishment of bliss, 
It is like madness when the promise slips, 
When there is rapture in the upturned kiss. 
What torture to recoil from cold, cold lips ! 

Anon, I learned to weep, which was a balm; 
And to mistrust, which is no boon;— and when, 
In bitterness of heart, I poured my psalm, 
I brushed among the throng like other men ; 
And whether vice obtains, or gain is rife. 
Who parts with his ideal, parts with his best life. 



53 



V. 



I trusted this ideal whicii I found, 
Till my illusion sickened and grew wan, 
With a sad smile for hopes so nearly crowned, 
Like a young flower dying in the dawn. 
Alas! I did believe in love, and filled 
IMy hands together joining, o'er the bank 
To which it gushed ; and saw, like water spilled. 
The cooling draught before I might have drank. 

It is a sort of stoicism, which, 

The' shackled, struggles, and tho' baffled, copes: 

Compassion claims not him ; he must be rich 

In heroism who is poor in hopes. 

The outcast in the life of every day, 

Is that hero we honor— in a play; 

While he, superb in his own time and age, 

With shift of scene were hooted from the stage. 



VI. 



Such struggle mightily, to wear away, 
By passion's eddy not alone beset; 
Who stems the tide, or would the scoffer stay, 
Must pluck the sting ol possible regret. 

To earn fair woman's favor, or to touch, 

Or to compel applause; or to surprise 
The sudden sparkle in the half -shut eyes, 
Is an achievement: — but to merit such 
Is that success which cancels all of sighs. 

It is not all that can divine them right. 
The blue of heaven, or the green in trees. 
The secret shade, the sacred vault of night; 

Yet who possessing, covets more than these I 

The days in native contemplation spent 
Are still the days which give us most content. 



54 



vn. 

Who strives with many doth keen combat feel ; 
Who doth achieve, doth lonesomely achieve, 
And pain is price of aJl; the only weal 
Is a young faith — and doubting is to grieve. 

Is my creed error, or do I believe 
In sham, mere myths projected by the brain ; 
Are shame and virtue falsehoods ; do we grieve 
Some shattered mirage, whicli itself was vainl 
Is man more kin to man than is the brute: 
Why, when I hunger, doth he hunger not; 
Why chuckle when I shiver ; and why hoot 
My very sores, when dogs had licked the spot I 
Therq is no trouble with the golden rule, 
If we except »the savage, or the fool. 



VIIL 

Mark Byron's fate who would ambition cramp,i 

O'r bid the moth his light for darkness shun, 
He scorched his plumage at Creation's lamp- 
Stupendous moth, — he soared too near the sun. 
And so with all— a shimmer lures us on 
Of light or love— as catching of our breath, 
We rush unheeding on where all have gone, 
Or nearly all, to vice-embittered death ! 
The meekest are the strongest, after all. 
Trusting no canting folly, rude or wrong, 
Who goes without a crutch will have a fall, 
While cripples plod all leaningly along. 



IX. 

All is not self — I venture that behind 
The coarsest hand is Nature's softest touch. 
That poverty is Sometimes choice, and kind 
Administrations ease the cripple's crutch. 

55 



Trutli, which is not man's appanage, endures; 
I deem that sorrows chafe and chasten, too, 
That Heaven is reward which good assutes, 
And love a dream, that sometimes may be true ; 
That hearts are won and win, whose gentle deeds 
Do emanate as fragrance from the rose, 
That struggle still goes on which intercedes, 
Opposing human hate with cheerful woes. 

In our vast sea of salt, some sweets there are revealed, 

As stars bedeck the sky, as flowers strew the field. 



X. 



I deem that woman is no worse than we. 
And sometimes better — tho' it should be toil 
And pangs, to conquer the rebellious knee, 
Enfolding her like boa with a coil 
Oi splendid agony which shrivels up 
Her leaf -like structure, crushing out a wine. 
Whose tones are chastened by such bitter cup 
And make her meekly— womanly divine. 

The surface is not test; their faces hide 

The lustre of their souls, for they do wear 
At times a hideous mask, which torn aside, 
Reveals the real treasure, brave and bare. 
Time was, when I confided in her ray. 
As the' one only star might shine by day. 



XI. 



With thee shall close my theme, who didst impart 
Too much of wantonness unto my strain ; 
Yet be it so— thou didst drink up my heart, 
Leaving, all lees behind, mixed up with pain. 
Altho' there is within me what is gall, 
Tho' wrongs my bosom with resentment fill. 
Should not remorse thy fickleness recall, 
I'll deem it sweet revenge— to love thee still. 

Not as I once did love thee, for the plow 

Has sunk too deep, and passion's force is past; 

5(3 



I gave thee all my summer's heat— and now 
That winter is, the snows are gathering fast. 

To thee contracted all, my whole existence went, 

But life is only once — and mine, alas 1 is spent. 

xn. 

'Tis my last thought, Farewell; and my last 

word; 
Tho' mine the broken chain. In the suspense 
Of right or wrong, 'tis better to have erred 
In idle folly, than in studied sense. 
It is enough to banish from my strain 
Rank heresy, that refuge of mean minds, 
For there are things which I would not profane, 
And what is lost to-day, to-morrow finds. 
The works of man are frail, and pass away, 
And there is much beside him to adore, 
Tho ' light restore his frippery by day, 
The night is God 's ; — it shall be mine once more. 
I yet may kneel to beauty as before, 
Tho' from the kneeling, there remain a sore. 
Beneath the sky's surrounding, musing with my star, 
I'll ponder how the wants of man peculiar are. 

^' XIII. 

Is all of verse a greater gain than loss ; 

For the dull being piloting the lame, 

May reckon more than all the poet's dross 

"Which people's bright his pantheon of fame. 

'Tis this I most deplore, for I would fain 

Accord him blest among all other men, 

Contemning ever, yet deserving gain, 

With unbought praise, the tribute to his pen. 

Behold Elm rather, orphaned in the crowd, 

As puling infant, parted from a sire, 

Spoiled child of song, with every gift endowed, 

Sublimely sad, and burdened with a lyre. 

Whose cords strike heaven itself, yet bends him moifrnful 

down, 
Sprinkling with sweat of blood his fields of rank renown. 

57! 



XIV. 

There let him bleed, a wreck of splendid power, 

Yet mightiest in the grave, who did pursue 

The foiling chattels of the living hour, 

Grieving— when all were his— that none were true. 

Tho' wantonly his ways, and vain his verse, 

He sinned not coldly, but in passion's heat, 

Tho' Justice, too, may not arrest his curse, 

'Tis Clemency shall make the sentence sweet. 

My wick is low, unsteady bums my flame, 

'Tis fitting I should mend my own mad mood. 

And bid at last forgiving to reclaim 

The moping spirit of my solitude. 

So the fight butterfly, passing the pupal term. 

Emerges and forgets that he was once a worm. 



XV. 

1 am contented to survive, and draw 

My sap of sense and feeling from this earth. 
To claim compassion of the higher law 
And to believe, no blessing is like birth. 
Tho' every virtue doth provoke a foe. 
To think and feel is one perpetual strife, 
Wliatever comes of struggle, or of woe, 
The sum of all our blessedness is life. 
There is no insect being but may give 
Its mite of joy; — and none too humble are; 
To join in generation is to live 
Among His kin ;— more grateful to Him far. 
Than in His Universe, a new-born star. 

The Great Life Giver, when a life is wrought, 

Bestows His best and His divinest thought. 
——Ten thousand gods, ten thousand people call, 
^ But he that calls Him Father,— names them all ! 



58 



XVI. 

Earth has enough of happiness ; had we 

To all her offerings, as they came, but clung; 

To gentle yoke of woman, to the glee 

Of lifers beginnings in the careless young. 

The laughing troup, the oft repeated game. 

The soft and closing hand, the fireside, 

The warming embers laughing into flame, 

Are these not friends, are these not turned aside? 

The joining eyes, which in thanksgiving blend, 

The playful riot, innocently wild. 

All, all are here;— how dear to lose or rend. 

And when they pall how painfully;— sweet child, 

My best, my Simple Love, was it not here 

Thy long and last caress— and lingering like a tearl 




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